Her hair, matted with sand

i noted the size of your hand,
small, with unevenly bitten and manicured nails,
and i could almost smell your perfume over the ocean—

i could almost tell it about you.
how is it that it’s written on us before
we even know it ourselves? how is it
that no one is surprised,
(but still there is room
for others to be outraged.
and oh!, here. here!
of all places!)

so let’s leave longings to the imagination
and sigh, only, through a furtive glance
delivered in no direction at all.

• Category: Poetry